


you're a taker, devil's maker

by betweenthebliss



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), Hellblazer
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crossover, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenthebliss/pseuds/betweenthebliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows a bad deal when it crosses his path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're a taker, devil's maker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eudaimon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/gifts).



I miss the bar completely my first time up the street, only finding the door on my second pass. Crammed between a closed-up druggist's and a decrepit flower shop, I'm amazed it's managed to attract enough patrons to stay in business. Ducking inside, I feel the soles of my boots sticking to the floor. _Lovely_. But at least it's warm-- winter's on its way, the wind outside cutting through my trenchcoat like it's made of paper. And the sleaze is fitting, given the kind of meeting I'm here to have.

The bartender's got a face like a pickled potato. He glares me down as I approach, like I've got some nerve coming into his bar in the first place. I rather agree-- but if you ask me, a place called Lititz, Pennsylvania has got some nerve existing in the first place.

“Evenin’,” I say, nodding my head. No response-- I might as well be talking to the wall. “I’ll have scotch and soda, if there’s a bottle you don’t have to dust off. If not, a pint of something dark’ll do.” He stares at me for so long I almost check to see if he’s a golem. Finally he moves to the taps, shoving a glass under one of them without looking at it. 

I don't much feel like making eye contact with him, so I stare at myself in the rusty mirror opposite instead. It's dingy, makes my hair look grey instead of blond, makes my skin look sallow. Or maybe that's just how I look: tired, worn out. Old. 

_And morbid, too_. This isn't the time for it. I look away, busy myself searching my pockets for American money. It's precious little I've got-- spent most of what I had on the ticket across the pond, most of what was left on the rental car to get here. I need this job-- which means the bloke who called me here had better be worth my time.

The barkeep’s still staring as he slides the pint across to me, and I pass him a fiver in exchange, careful not to touch the bartop. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I should be touching the glass, either. But it was a hell of a trip getting here, and I’m thirsty.

He’s about to turn away when I say, “I’m here to meet a chap calls himself Wednesday.” He goes still, turns back my way wearing a real expression for the first time. I recognize the look; it’s fear on that craggy face, plain and simple. For the first time I feel a real thrill-- excitement or apprehension, maybe a bit of both. For the first time, I'm actually curious about my would-be employer, instead of just curious about his money.

“In the back,” Methuselah croaks, pointing toward a shadowy corner by the pool table. The light over the pitted green surface paints everything an unflattering yellow, but it’s enough to pick out a few details of the man I'm here to see-- suit jacket, silver ring on one hand, the gleam of his eye as his face turns my way. By the time I reach his table he’s looking straight at me.

He’s older than he sounded on the phone, grey threading through his thick hair, his hand gnarled like oak, his grip just as hard. “John Constantine,” he says, grinning. That ebullient voice with its faint New York flair-- a little flamboyant, a little threatening. Like a gangster, or someone who cultivates the comparison. The tumbler in front of him, sporting a couple fingers’ worth of something amber-coloured, just adds to the picture.

“Mr. Wednesday. Nice to meet you in person.” I sit without waiting for him to invite me. 

“Nice of you to come. Hell of a jog, London all the way to bumfuck Pennsylvania in less than a day? Must’ve caught you in the off-season.” 

His words come out choppy, like a dog that has to breathe between every bark. I take a swig of beer to save myself having to pretend to laugh at his joke. "So how'd you find me?" 

"Word of mouth. Friend of a friend of a friend, you know?" He sips his drink, goes on, "You help one moody goth bastard with a bag of magic sand, word gets around.” 

I wince. “That was a long time ago.”

“So it was,” he says. “And I’ve kept your name squirreled away up here just in case ever since.” He tilts his head to tap at his temple, a twinkle of light bounces off his eye, and I realize it’s fake. For some reason it sends a chill crawling down my spine. _Calm down, John_. But now I'm looking at him I can't help but notice everything that's off about him. His suit looks tailor-made-- way too nice for a dive like this, it ought to stand out, but it doesn't. My eye slides right past it; my brain won't accept that he doesn't fit in. It's the same with his face-- I take a long look, try to memorize it, but the second I look away the image is gone. 

_Who are you, really?_ I'm not sure I want to know.

Another sip of my pint's not helping me relax, so I fish out my smokes and light one. The ashtray's a cheap metal thing, someone else's butts already crumpled in the bottom of it. Wednesday watches me light up. I tuck the pack back into my pocket, blow out my first exhale, then ask, "Mind if I smoke?"

Wednesday barks a laugh, showing too many teeth. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, isn't that right?" I have to grin at that; what fucking nonsense. What doesn't kill you just doesn't kill you-- if you're not strong enough to survive it already, you're fucked. 

Then he says, "I heard the lovely Rosacarnis made you an offer recently." 

Damned if my heart doesn't near stop in me chest at that. "How'd you figure that?" I try to make it come out even, but it doesn't. 

"So she did." He spreads his hands. "Now I don't deal much with demons, but I'm willing to bet you've got a few reservations about taking that offer." 

He’s not wrong about that. Reservations would be putting it mildly. If that blank space in my head where my memories should live didn’t gnaw at me like a starving dog on a drumstick, I’d have told Rosacarnis where she could stick her offer.

“What's that got to do with you?” His answer matters, cause he's just up and changed the whole game. I came here broke and desperate, but thought I was the only one that knew it. Turns out Wednesday had one up on me from the start-- if he can get the demon bitch off my back (or do what she offered for a more palatable price) I’m gonna think twice before turning him down. And from the look on his face, he knows it.

“A simple trade. You do a bit of magic for me-- something simple, not too flashy, I promise-- and I give you your memories back.”

“Simple,” I echo. I can’t half believe what I’m hearing-- not that he's saying it, but that he expects me to believe it. I may be a chump who's been played for a fool a hundred times over, but I know a bad deal when it's staring me in the face. Looking at this bastard's like looking in a funhouse mirror-- he's trying to play me, and I'm not particularly feeling like playing along. 

“Let's be honest with each other, yeah? What is it exactly you want me to do?”

"I need to arrange a mishap," he says. “I need two people out of the picture, and it has to be an accident. Above reproach, you know what I’m saying?”

When I don't reply right away, his eyebrows go up and he tuts at me like a granny. "Tsk tsk, John boy. Pretending to be squeamish, now?"

"No," I say, shrugging. He’s got my measure, alright. I may not be a fan of murder, but that don’t mean my hands are clean. "Just not sure I want to be involved in something that might draw attention to me. Who's it you're trying to off?"

"Well, if I told you, I'd have to kill you," he says. He doesn’t laugh at his own shite joke, and that’s creepier than it would’ve been if he had. "But trust me-- it's nobody important. Just some floozy and her boyfriend-- no one'll even miss 'em."

It's on the tip of my tongue to ask him, if these people are so insignificant, why's he want them dead? But provoking him's not gonna be worth my time-- he seems like a guy used to putting up with a lot worse than me, and I can be pretty damn annoying when I choose.

Besides-- his answer's not gonna change mine, so I might as well come clean about it now.

"Sorry," I say, shaking my head as I stub out the end of my smoke in the ashtray. "I got enough death following me around without adding to the pile. No disrespect meant, but I'm not your guy." It's a wrench saying it. Besides my memories, I know I'm turning down a heap of cash-- murder ain't cheap-- but I got more to think about than where my next meal's coming from. There's enough deaths to my name I'll be working the rest of my life to atone for, and I'm not adding to the list for this smug bastard.

If he's disappointed to be turned down, Wednesday doesn't show it. Just cocks an eyebrow at me, a little surprised. "So you don't want your memories back?" 

"No, I do. But karma's a bitch, and that's not a trade I come out on top of." I don't have the words, and even if I did, I wouldn't explain to him that that's not what I'm trying to do with my life now. I've done precious little good in this world, but I'm not going to rack up any more bad.

“Your loss, John boy.” Wednesday gets to his feet and shrugs into his overcoat. As he looks down at me, he looks older than he did sitting across from me, his fake eye sunken, the wrinkles on his brow and around his mouth more pronounced. He looks older than old; he looks ancient. “You might wish you’d reconsidered.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. In fact, something tells me I’ll be grateful to get outta this shithole with my hide still intact.

"You will," he says, and this time there's an echo of thunder in his voice. "You had the chance to be part of something, John. It's a shame we can't count on you." I try to reply but find I'm struck dumb, my lungs barely working enough to draw in air, my throat seized up like there's a hand wrapped around it. 

Then in a blink, the moment passes. I gasp in a lungful of murky beer-flavoured air; it's the sweetest thing I've ever tasted. Wednesday grins, careless as a cat, like he hadn't just done-- whatever he did to me. "You be careful out there, John," he says, fishing in his pockets. "Snow's coming-- those roads can get awful slick. Want to make sure you get back home in one piece." 

While I'm working up a reply to that piece of ominous bullshit, he finds what he was looking for in his pocket and drops it onto the table-- a thick gold coin bigger than a two-pounder that hits the wood with a sound like a gong. "For your trouble," he says. His hand rests heavy on my shoulder for no more than a second, and then he's gone. I don't turn to watch him go, but I feel the bitter chill gust through the place as the door opens, and as it closes behind him the lights seem brighter, the ozone tang missing from the air that I'd barely even noticed until it was gone.

"What a waste," I mutter, tossing back the rest of my pint and getting to my feet. I look at the gold coin on the table; it'd pay my fare back to London with some to spare, but right now I can't be sure what strings that coin's got tied to it. I don't even want to touch it, let alone use it.

So I leave it behind. Tip for Old Man River behind the bar, I guess. Poor bugger could probably use a windfall. Me, I've got to get home. 

The icy wind bites into me as I step outside, buttoning my coat all the way to the neck. A throaty caw drags my eyes up to the two enormous black birds perched on top of the telephone pole across the street. A creepy shiver's barely done chattering through me before they're off, flapping into the night, black silhouettes against the full moon rising over the rooftops.

Two crows-- _No, ravens_ , I realize, that cold sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades as I finally do the math. Wednesday-- from Woden's Day, in homage to the top dog of the Norse gods, one-eyed Woden, or Odin in the modern tongue. I run shaking hands through my hair. Fuck, I'm an idiot-- but maybe the luckiest idiot this side of the Atlantic.

 _Shame we can't count on you_ , he'd said. I don't know who "we" is, but whatever he's up to, it's definitely about more than a pair of unlucky arseholes who got on a god's bad side. Something's going to break open here, and I want nothing to do with it. There's enough for me to worry about back home without adding America's troubles to it. This is someone else's problem-- and for once I'm content to let it stay that way.

I trudge up the street toward the rental car, jingling the keys in my pocket, humming a bit of Bowie under my breath. A few minutes later I'm pulling onto the highway, mostly empty this time of night, just my lonesome headlights pointed east. Fiddle the dial on the radio, trying to find something besides country twang and odes to Jesus, but no such luck. Seventy-five miles between me and Philly, and nothing but the static to keep me company. 

The road stretches on, straight and empty ahead of me. I pull a smoke from the pack with my teeth and light it. Good a way to pass the time as any, boring drive like this. I glance into the darkness now and then; once I catch a pair of shining eyes looking back. 

It strikes me then how fucking huge this country is, how vast and undiscovered. A place this big, how can you ever know every inch of it? My mind spins out through those wide open spaces, imagining what dark, strange things might be hiding in plain sight, biding their time. 

I've never felt smaller than I do in that instant, and it's a strange comfort to revel in my own insignificance. Here and now, I'm not John Constantine, not a con man or a magician or anything else important. I'm just one lonely man in a country of millions, making his way along a deserted road, hoping it'll lead him home.

**Author's Note:**

> To eudaimon: I was excited by several of your prompts, but as soon as the thought of John meeting Wednesday crossed my mind, I knew I had to do it. Happy Yuletide, and thank you for the joy of writing this story!  
> To C, for betaing so well and so fast, and for knowing exactly what was missing.  
> This takes place pre-American Gods, and in the middle of Mike Carey's run of writing Hellblazer. The title is from "Wolf" by First Aid Kit.


End file.
